


Even Keel

by dieofthatroar



Series: Learned Helplessness 'Verse [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Substance Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 15:32:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13034145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dieofthatroar/pseuds/dieofthatroar
Summary: Jeff Troy still called Kent Parson "kid" though he was only three years older. It rolled off the tongue the way "Parser" didn’t, stepping onto the rink in the early hours of the morning when Jeff was still shaking off the last of the cotton-ball taste and heavy limbs of sleep.“Hey kid,” he’d say.“Fuck you,” Kent would respond.Jeff thought they had a good thing going.In Kent's third season with the Aces, he found out there were certain things didn't have the energy to keep running from.





	Even Keel

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure: I'm currently a second-year medical student and quite like the classic TV series Degrassi, I like giving characters all the issues so I can talk about them. This quickly became a game where, yes, I tried to include every piece of diagnostic criteria I could for Kent's disorder including differential, comorbidities, etc, etc. Maybe you too can try to pass the NBME psychiatry exam.
> 
> This is a standalone story, but within the universe of Learned Helplessness if you want a glimpse of the past and future.

**Names**

Jeff Troy still called Kent Parson  _ kid _ , though he was only three years older. It rolled off the tongue the way  _ Parser _ didn’t stepping onto the rink in the early hours of the morning when Jeff was still shaking off the last of the cotton-ball taste and heavy limbs of sleep. 

“Hey kid,” he’d say.

“Fuck you,” Kent would respond. 

Jeff thought they had a good thing going. 

 

**Things Jeff Troy knew about Kent Parson:**

He’d grown up in New York, though at the tail end of the growing it was mostly in Montreal.

He talked about his salary like the money was from a monopoly game. Like it wasn’t—couldn’t—be real. He sent most of it away to a mom and sister who he spoke about with warmth but had never taken the time to introduce to anyone. 

He loved cats, talked a good bit about getting one, but Jeff knew it was mostly a throwaway dream. A sort of  _ when I grow up _ for a guy who just stepped out of his teens and still blinked each time a camera was shoved into his face. 

He was fast. No, you don’t understand. You think you know, looking from that TV, but imagine being on the ice next to him and  _ feeling _ that rush go by. Think about that sort of fast. No, faster. 

If anyone mentioned the Calder to him, he’d flip them off.

He liked the sort of pop music teen girls begged their parents to go see, but Jeff had to be the one to drag him to a Britney concert on the strip because he wouldn’t admit he was dying to go. They’d gone to a few more after that. And sure, Jeff was pretty into it too. 

He talked about Bad Bob like he was an uncle, but didn’t talk much about Jack Zimmermann. He’d shut down any mention of him, good or bad. Especially bad. Wiley got a fist to the jaw once when he’d whispered the name Jack and drugs in the same sentence and it was strange because another thing Jeff knew about Kent was that he wasn’t a fighter. Hell, no. There was a reason he was so fast. 

 

**Things Jeff Troy didn’t know about Kent Parson:**

Where he got that scar over his forehead that shone when sweat dripped from his hairline after practice. Jeff had asked if it was a hit he’d taken in the Q. Kent didn’t say anything. 

If he could actually speak French, because Jeff had never heard a word of it from his mouth, but when some of the French Canadian guys spoke off-ice, he’d cock his head like he could understand. 

Where he bought his hair product. 

If Kent was religious at all. For some reason, Jeff thought Kent may have been Catholic, once upon a time. Jeff was surprised when he’d insisted on finding someone on spending Hanukkah with, that first year. Kent cursed like he didn’t think a God was watching, but refused to talk about sex like he was a schoolboy in the shadow of a nun. Jeff didn’t think the kid was a virgin though because he talked around some subjects like he knew exactly where to step.

But actually. How did he get his hair like that? It even looked good after games, it’s not fair. 

Where he’d disappeared to those couple weeks in the offseason after his first year, right before his birthday.

Why,  _ exactly _ , he didn’t talk about Jack Zimmermann. You know I’m not talking about the media shit, shut up. 

If he really enjoyed going out with the guys after games, because he  _ does _ go, every time. At first, it was to appease Jeff. Then, he started to offer to drive. Later still, he preened when the other guys flocked around him as he told stories and shit talked. He went and he laughed and he looked like he liked the people there, but Jeff wasn’t sure if he liked himself there. 

What time he went to bed, Jesus. 

_ Kent (2:57am): That show you told me to watch was ass. The hell do I listen to you. _

 

**Eat**

Jeff brought extra protein bars to the training session because Kent was famously shit at putting on weight before the season started and because if he knew anything, Kent would have rolled out of bed straight into his shoes to get to the rink on time. They’d only had two seasons together so far, but it was enough for Jeff to see it. The way Kent’s clothes hang or tighten by month, the way he stares at his dinners and frowns, the way he sighs at the nutritionists and takes another bite. 

It was just as well. Jeff had no trouble putting in the calories, but it was the motivation to just take that first step into the gym that did him in. And that’s where Kent came in, exchanging that breakfast held out in Jeff’s hand for a slap on the arm and an offer to spot him on the bench press. 

He’d hand him a protein shake in the afternoon and Jeff would struggle behind Kent in suicides across the ice. 

 

**Things Kent Parson didn’t want Jeff Troy to know about him**

Three months after he was drafted, Kent looked up his father. He wanted to know if he knew what he’d left behind. Wanted to know that he hadn’t fucked him up. Or, maybe, that he did. Kent found a phone number and address, but when he tried to call, a little voice on the other side said the line was disconnected. 

There was a photo he kept in one of the side pockets of his gym bag—red, rosy, Montreal winter-kissed lips. It would have screwed him over if anyone saw it, but there was a little bit of him that wanted someone to find it. To look at it, turn to him, and ask. 

There were many nights Kent didn’t sleep at all. 

His mother once told him and his sister that their father left because he was crazy. Because he couldn’t contain the rages that sometimes spilled over and drowned them all. It wasn’t their fault, of course. It wasn’t their fault their father had lost his mind.

He binged that one show Jeff kept asking him about but didn’t want to tell him because he wouldn’t hear the end of it if he admitted he liked it. 

He’d paid for all of his sister, Katie’s tuition for the first year of college without hesitation, but still nurtured that feeling that everything would have been a little easier without a family. 

He really hated the brand of nutrition bar Jeff kept buying.

 

**Nostalgia**

On a Friday, Jeff insisted on finding a fancy Japanese barbecue place—one of the ones that sells the real expensive meat that you can burn the hell out of on those table stoves—because nutritional supplements could only get them so far, and damn, shouldn’t they at least try to enjoy being hungry? They got a few of the guys together and Kent invited Alec, the new d-man, enjoying not being the youngest one for a change. 

“Chopsticks, man,” Kent said. “You’re supposed to grab—no, not like that—you’re not trying to fucking stab the thing, no, no—”

“Don’t let Parser make you feel bad,” Jeff said. “He’s only just gotten used to them.” 

“Hey! Montreal also happens to be an international food capital, I’ll let you know.”

A laugh from across the table. “You enjoying that with what NHL salary back then, Parser?” 

Kent’s face froze up for a moment, meat in his mouth dripping juice onto the rice below. Jeff knew the answer, but there were barbs in those stories and Kent didn’t look like he intended to share. 

“Day-old takeout sushi is food,” Kent said when he swallowed. 

And Jeff’s heart swelled a little as he watched Kent reach out and steal a piece of beef from under him. 

 

**Rough waters**

Kent’s grandfather had a little kayak they used to take out on the Maine coast. He remembered how it bobbed up and down in the surf and Kent laughed and laughed as his grandfather gripped the paddle with one hand and his fishing rod with the other. Once they got further out, passed the break and the white waters and the excited shrieks, the swells still came but they were smoother. Easier. Kent could count how many bumps were coming up and tell his grandfather each time they should brace for a big one. 

After a while, though, Kent felt himself getting sick. Especially when the boat felt like it was falling out from under him and hit the swell on the other side. 

They retreated back to shore before he threw up. 

 

**Boys**

“I just don’t get why all those bond girls fall for him.” Jeff had his feet on the coffee table, fingers slicked with half-melted chocolate as he stared at the screen. 

“Huh?” Kent said. 

“They’re intelligent, beautiful women,” Jeff said. “They should know what’s coming.” 

Kent stared at the screen, Daniel Craig’s pinched frown sending electricity down each of his vertebra, one by one. 

 

**Virgin**

The first time Jeff convinced Kent to go to one of the parties with the guys, back in the fall of Kent’s rookie year, it was a small thing at Brownie’s—some appetizers, a baseball game on in the background, girlfriends and wives chatting over the hooting laughs of veteran players. Jeff had an ongoing bet with Freddy that  _ required _ the TV stayed set to the Yankees game, but the group laying out on the couch disagreed. They grabbed for the control and knocked a couple beers onto the floor and Freddy’s wife, Haley, rolled her eyes. 

“I—I can help clean that,” Kent said, voice small. He was already halfway to the kitchen door, inching backward with his fingers grazing across the wall. He still looked like a kid, the way he held himself. Shoulders hunched and body aware of every whisper of wind that passed him. So careful with every inch of floor he rested his feet like he wasn’t sure how he’d grown into those shoes.

“I got it, hun,” Haley said. 

Wiley met him halfway, stepping out of the kitchen with three new drinks in hand. “Loosen up, Parser,” he said, holding out an IPA to Kent. “Don’t have to prove your worth here too.” 

Kent shook his head. “I can’t drink.” 

Freddy laughed as he snatched up one of Wiley’s other bottles. “Yeah, we know you’re underage kid. It’s alright, we won’t tell.” 

But Jeff saw how Kent’s eyes went slightly wide and glassy. How he looked from the bottle to his hands, like they were stained with blood or tar, then back to the bottle. That, right there, Jeff thought, was the first look that wasn’t a child’s. 

“No, I—that’s—”

Wiley scoffed. “You’ve got to learn how to have some fun.” 

“Lay off,” Jeff said. He passed Kent a cup of orange juice he’d been nursing. “Kid’s smart. He’ll be the only one who’ll be able to face the sun for tomorrow’s strength training.” 

Brownie groaned. “So  _ that’s _ the secret to scoring, huh? Wiley, you’ve gotta take some lessons.” 

Kent met Jeff’s eyes in the midst of the chirps that followed and blinked in thanks. Jeff wished he didn’t feel like he had to. 

 

**Cinderella**

Kent had dreams that marched one by one through his head each night like it was a concert with a playlist that the band couldn’t change. Broken bottles of beer cracked across kitchen tables, dripping contents across empty seats. The panicked breath of  _ No, Kenny, I can’t. No, Kenny, they’ll see. But Kenny, just one more. No, Kenny, what if they’ll see. _

They couldn’t go outside because someone would be able to see right through Jack like he was a ghost. Was  _ already _ a ghost. They’d see him suffocate and wail and turn into the mist and no, Jack couldn’t have that. He’d just have to turn into a ghost inside, where nobody except Kent could see him. 

The broken bottles turned into rivers turned into waterfalls that they fell into, every night. They slept on clouds and woke up in a daze and floated to practice on melted ice. 

And Kent came back to a quiet house with broken bottles that fell onto broken chairs, but nobody on sat them.  _ Jack? Jack, you home? _ he’d call. And he’d climb the stairs and open the bathroom door and know he was going to see a ghost before he saw it. 

Saw the white scattered snowflakes make angels out of Jack. It was all over the floor. Kent always wondered how he’d gotten it to snow inside. Jack liked the snow so much, you know. He was from Montreal. He’d liked the snow so much he’d ate it up with waterfalls and fell asleep before he could be made into an angel. Into the ghost he was so scared of becoming. 

Kent woke before the part where he screamed. 

 

**House**

There was a time back in Kent’s rookie season, about two or three months in the fall, that all he did after he got home from practices or games was watch reruns of shows on TV. Law and Order, NCIS, CSI, Grey’s Anatomy… He’d spend hours and hours curled up watching the flashing lights of police cars and ambulances in a far away life that wasn’t his. 

Jeff came by more and more often, spreading out on the couch and throwing chips at the screen: “Goddamn it, Stabler. It’s the uncle,  _ it’s the uncle!” _

The tradition lasted through their second and now into their third season together.

“Hey, where you off to, kid?” 

Kent shrugged on his shirt and fumbled in his gym bag for his sunglasses. “Home,” he said. “My quads deserve a break.”

“Awesome. What’s on today?” Jeff asked. 

Kent zipped up his bag slowly, like something inside was could pop or shatter. “Don’t remember inviting you.” 

“Come on, I always bring the snacks. It’s an exchange. I take care of you, you let me watch on that absurdly large TV of yours.” 

“Not my mother.” 

Jeff ignored him. “What are we watching?” 

It would have taken too much energy for Kent to argue. “Gilmore Girls.” 

“Ugh, yes. I’ve been waiting for Rory to dump that asshole, Logan.” He swept up his things and headed for the door. “Let’s go.” 

 

**Girls**

Kent started bouncing his foot ten minutes into season six. He got up to grab some water, paced around the kitchen, and Jeff paused the DVR. The sound of a rattle of glasses kept him company until Kent returned. Jeff started up the show again. 

“I don’t know why she puts up with him,” Jeff said. “He’s just some rich guy.” 

Kent shrugged. “He’s cute.” 

“Fine, a cute, rich guy. But why throw away her life?” 

 

**Icarus**

Jeff knew that Kent wasn’t a fighter. 

But in their first home game against the Oilers, Kent was the first one with his fists out, shaking and screaming like it wasn’t just a show. It took three people to get him off. It took Jeff to get him calm. 

The only other time Jeff had seen Kent fight like that was in the playoffs that first year. When there had been rings around Kent’s eyes and fire in his lungs and he skated like he was a god—untouchable. Unknowable.

 

**The sun**

“I’ve seen this before,” Jeff said. He was worried. He wished he didn’t have to say it. 

“Seen what?” Kent spat. 

Jeff didn’t want to be the one who connected the thoughts  _ Jack _ and  _ drugs _ and Kent’s fierce stare and rapid breathing. Not like this. 

“Guys take things, sometimes,” Jeff said. “They think it’ll make them better, but it makes them—turns them angry. Into someone else.” 

“You think I’m taking steroids?” 

Jeff looked down at the pavement, where the tires on Kent’s car met the gritty earth. “I’ve seen guys go down for this stuff, kid.”

“Fuck you.” 

Kent slammed his door shut and drove away.

 

**The sea**

Kent felt like he was climbing, up and up and up. Like there was no crest and at some point, he’d reach the sky. It was a punchdrunk happiness, raised on wings he didn’t make. 

He thought of ice instead of waterfalls. Thought of going, going,  _ going. _ He’d go fast and far and nobody could touch him. Kent didn’t think of how it would feel when he slid down the other side.

 

**Pressured**

Two days later, Jeff went early to the rink because he had a hunch. Well, it was a hunch, three missed calls, a string of unanswered texts, and an email from the GM.

He found Kent there, skating without pads, around and around. Sweat stained the back of his shirt and there were flecks of ice on his elbows and across his thigh. 

“They gave you keys?” Jeff said, voice cracking the silence into pieces. Kent whirled around and skated toward him. 

“I may have—taken them?” Kent said. “Or—borrowed. Borrowed is the word I’m looking for—”

“I won’t tell,” Jeff said, lacing up his own skates. “When did you get here, anyway?” 

Kent had shot past him, already halfway down the rink. “Dunno. It was dark. All looks the same then anyway. But I was thinking of this new play, right? I’ve been working on it, so—”

“Slow down, man,” Jeff said. He hung by the boards and grabbed a breakfast shake from his bag. “Eat first, then skate. Remember?” 

“But Jeff, listen—”

“Eat.”

Kent hurled to a stop before him and stood like it took him time to listen to the words and make them into things with meaning. “Don’t need—”

“Yes, you do. Come eat and I’ll listen.” 

Kent nodded.

 

**Hedonism**

Kent rode his wave, but he wasn’t alone.

Jack’s ghost followed him to the dance floor even if Jack wasn’t dead. But see,  _ Jack _ wasn’t invited so Jack’s ghost thought, hey, he’d make due. Kent usually didn’t think about the not-ghost of Jack Zimmermann and how he stood next to each of those other guys who ran fingers through his hair or plundered under his shirt. Kent didn’t think about how those blue eyes (turned misty in this light) rolled over each and every man Kent hoped would make him forget. 

 

**Things Jeff Troy may or may not have known about Kent Parson**

There was an emptied box of condoms in Kent’s recycling bin. 

He recycled somewhat regularly. 

He didn’t talk about it.

 

**Mask**

“It was dark,” Kent said. “I didn’t want to turn on the lights because his parents might have been home and I’d done this—fuck, I don’t know—hundreds of times before. And it was dark, so I didn’t see—I didn’t see. Well, I could smell it all, anyway. Not the vomit, not yet, but the way the fuckin’ Wiley’s place smells after he invites the whole team over. Don’t you see why I can’t—no, that’s not it anyway. I can’t drink because I’m afraid—no, sure—I won’t stop. It’s like a fucking curse and it—it eats you. Devours you. So, I went upstairs and opened the door and—”

And that was when Jeff finally figured out what Kent was talking about. Tuesday night was the third time in the past week Jeff had lost track of him so he’d gone to his apartment. That was at 11 pm. Four hours later and he finally figured out that Kent was talking about Jack Zimmermann.

“He looked like ice—made of ice. Like he was—fuck, do you read George RR Martin? Ice-men, snow-people—”

“White walkers?”

“Yes! That. Except, more dead.” Kent took a breath. Jeff didn’t know if he wanted to hear this. He’d known, though through vague mentions and team gossip, that he was the one who found Jack. He never thought he’d hear that from Kent himself. Jeff wanted to stop him. “White and still and—”

“Kent—”

“Did you know he’s going to college?  _ College? _ The fuck would he do with books and  _ people _ everywhere, you think he knows he can’t hide? But maybe he wouldn’t want to, with all that. He always thought he was my first, but we didn’t talk about it much at all, did we? Didn’t talk, hell no. Why would he want to say anything about anything except hockey and cold and snow and—man, it’s cold in Montreal, you know?”

“Kid, we go there every—”

“Cold and—but he wasn’t my first. Back at home when I—”

“First what?” Jeff thought about Kent’s dad, gone from the picture. Was there something with him? Alcohol? Drugs? Did Kent see something then too? Did he...

“Fuck,” Kent said. “First fuck. But, god, Jack was better than him, anyway. Can I do better than that—”

Jeff blinked. Oh.

 

**Things Jeff Troy knew about Kent Parson**

That.

 

**Flashy**

“I bought a new car,” Kent said on Friday. He looked calmer today, picking at his nails before practice. He was skittish around Jeff again, like he’d been his first season. Ever since that night, after Jeff forced Kent to sleep and he did for four hours and it felt like he’d won some sort of prize. “It’s a terrible color. Why’d I do that?” 

“It’s fine.” 

“It’s not.”

“Kent,” Jeff said. “Have you ever seen someone? A doctor, or something?”

“Right after the draft,” Kent said. “Team sent me to a psychiatrist because they knew. Well, they knew at least part of it at least. Saw her for a few months. She helped me with the transition and some other things.” 

“Have you gone back?” 

Kent shook his head. “Prozac didn’t do shit. I didn’t think I needed them, anyway.” 

Jeff was quiet. ESPN was on somewhere in the background and they’d circled back to hockey. Back to the last Aces game  _ where Kent Parson’s looking a lot like he did back in the lead up to their 2010 Stanley victory, don’t you think? _

“You could see if you could exchange it,” Jeff said. “The car, I mean.” 

“Nah,” Kent said. “I’ve gotta learn to live with my bad choices.”

Jeff leaned forward, put his head in his hands, tried very hard to make what he said sound as kind as he could. “You’ve gotta know which choices to think of as bad,” he said. “And which bad things to think of as choices.” 

 

**Other side**

Ships sank, sometimes. Capsized in large waves and drowned. 

 

**C**

Around the holidays, Spinner always had the families over at his place—as many people as could fit in the open-plan house and sandy backyard. Jeff looked forward to it. They had meat grilling and bonfires going and cactuses lit up like Christmas trees out front. 

Inside, it was dressed up to look more the winter wonderland Vegas could never be. Tinsel and evergreen and red and silver. Jeff spotted Kent there in the foyer, chatting with Spinner’s kids—Ellie and Samantha, five and eight. He was squatting on his heels and talking with his hands, describing snow and icicles and fog on his breath. The girls gasped and snorted and said, “that doesn’t sound real.” 

Jeff took their spot when the two left to follow the smell of freshly baked cake. 

“I think I promised I’d go sledding with them,” Kent said. 

“Sledding?” 

“Need to find some snow.” 

Spinner appeared by the open door to the dining room, Ellie in hand and face streaked in frosting. They both waved. 

“They want you captain, you know.” 

Kent waved back. “They.” 

“Spinner, Freddy, lots of the veterans,” Jeff said. “Even management were talking about picking a younger guy and everyone knows that can only be you.” 

Kent laughed. “Sure.” 

“I’d like you to be captain.” 

Kent’s laugh caught and he looked away. “Jeff, man. You know that’s not a good idea.” 

“You’re the best out there and—”

“I know how to play,” Kent said. “Everything else is—” he made a vague gesture, dismissive. “Everything else is barely functioning.” 

“I know you, kid. Going out there and having that responsibility? That’s where you shine.” 

_ “You _ know me,” Kent said, voice lowered. The tinkling of champagne glasses shimmered over a piano arrangement of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen. “Nobody else wants to, really.” 

“Kid—” 

“Drop it.”

 

**Dinghy**

Kent didn’t know how to explain to Jeff how the waves felt. There would be days he could see the horizon, clear and true. Some days, the mist crawled in and all he could do was latch himself onto the side and hope. 

 

**Red**

“Happy Valentine’s day, Parser,” Freddy said. “Where’s your date?” 

“Nonexistent,” Kent said. “You remember the flowers for your wife?” 

“Picking them up on the way home,” he said. “What do you mean, nonexistent? I can’t imagine a strapping young fellow like yourself—”

“Fellow?”

“—can’t get a nice girl for a night because if you need—”

“Fellow.”

“—help with—what?” 

“Fellow,” Kent said again. Because everyone had a string that ran out, the end of the line, a slip of the tongue just waiting to happen and why not just get out with it.

Freddy pouted. “Making fun of me just trying to help you out?” 

“No,” Kent said. “I meant—a guy. If you want to help, that is. Men.” 

 

**Pick up lines**

Jeff picked apart rumors because he was a busybody on one level, and on another, always a little worried about Kent. So, when Kent called him, worried, Jeff could say with certainty that nobody was talking. 

 

**Ritual**

“I wonder all the time, what was he thinking? What could have been so bad that he’d want to leave all of that?” Kent said. It was midnight and the credits were rolling into the next episode of NCIS. “And I know it’s my fault, I let him get that far, but he knew how I felt and it was still better to just fucking—”

“Do you really want to talk about this?” Jeff said.

“Of course I don’t want to. But it doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Because sometimes I just  _ get it. _ I get it completely and I—”

Jeff sat up. “Kent, what are you saying?” 

“It’s like, a prayer. Something like a prayer. On your mind, just comes to your tongue when you need it and it’s almost, comforting?”

“You’re talking about dying?” 

“I’m not saying that I want to—not now,” Kent said. “But everyone thinks about death like that, don’t they?”

Jeff choked on a sound. “No, they don’t.”

 

**Love?**

Visiting Katie over her spring break when Kent had a chance between games was love. He bought her the books she kept raving about, then bought her a kindle that connected to his account so she could buy all the books in the world. They joked about mom and dunked french fries into milkshakes at a 24-hour diner and were the only two sober ones there. 

Visiting his mom was another sort of love, wrapped in apologies and promises. Kent bought her forgiveness by letting her pick out his next watch, a pair of cufflinks, and a tie pin. A mother’s taste was better than his own, sure. 

Systematically pulling the ghost of Jack Zimmermann from where he lived—liver, spleen, heart—was something else entirely. 

And Jeff. What he was doing was something more than the word kindness could cover, but Kent didn’t want to name it. And what did Kent do with it? He pushed it aside. Ignored the texts and shut doors in his face because...

_ Jeff (3:52pm): You need to talk to someone _

_ Kent (4:03pm): I talk to you _

_ Jeff (4:04pm): I’m not enough _

 

**Mirror**

“Hey, Parser,” Alec said, mid-victory pileup, home crowd going wild. They were one step closer to the cup. “Did it feel like this your first run?” 

The high was in Kent’s throat and nose, like water rushing into his lungs when he yelled. Kent’s mind was already three games ahead, running possibilities and strategies over and over. 

“Something like it.” 

 

**Glass**

“I’ve made you an appointment with—”

“I’m not going,” Kent said. 

Jeff pressed his hands into the marble countertop. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” 

“I’m fine.” 

“I keep—fuck.” Jeff turned away. He couldn’t face the way Kent’s mouth was stretched thin and his anger stitched across his forehead. Jeff could still hear Kent’s fingernail tapping on the back of his chair, restless and full of energy. “I keep thinking you’ll kill yourself out there, the way you’ve been treating your body. It’ll catch up to you and I can’t watch as you do that to yourself.” 

Kent clicked his tongue. “That’s your fucking problem, then.” 

Jeff was silent. 

“You still think I’m taking something?” Kent said. “Don’t you? You think I’d—what—snort something in the back of one of those Las Vegas clubs or swipe some Adderall from a local high schooler?” 

“I don’t know, kid.” 

Kent laughed. “Captain material, huh? Don’t even trust me—”

“It isn’t that.” 

“Get out of my fucking apartment.” 

 

**Things Kent Parson didn’t tell Jeff Troy**

This was the best he’d ever felt. He could be proud of himself, for once, the kid from nowhere who was first out of the draft and a Calder winner and one of the top scorers in the league. It was like flying, like everything was in his grasp. Like if the Cup were just in front of him and he could just take his hand… open his fingers wide… and take it. 

 

**Celebrations**

“There’s no way they won’t pick you to be captain,” Alec said, a little tipsy off the drinks being passed around. “No way. You’re it.” 

Kent ignored the feeling of Jeff’s eyes on the back of his skull.

 

**Connections**

Jeff couldn’t get in contact with Kent for the two days after they finished all the press and pomp and circumstance around the Cup win. For two days he called and texted and knocked hard on his apartment door with no response. 

“Do you know where Parser is?” Jeff asked Freddy.

“Nah, man. You’re usually the one who does.” 

“Probably just out basking in it all,” Alec said, who looked like that was in his plans. 

On the third day, Jeff called Kent’s sister. 

“Katie?” Jeff said. “Hi, uh, this is—this is Jeff Troy.” 

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, yeah, I know who you are.” 

“Have you heard from him? From Kent?” 

“No,” Katie said slowly. “Wait. He said something about visiting a friend, the last time I talked to him. Someone in the northeast?” 

“Montreal?” Jeff asked. 

“Boston, I think,” Katie said. “Why? Is there something wrong?” 

Who did Kent know in Boston? No one from the Aces got traded to the Bruins in the past few years, none of his family. Someone from the Q…

Oh, shit.

 

**Ghost**

Kent forgot what Jack Zimmermann looked like alive. He’d spent so long with his ghost that he thought his eyes were the color of a foaming sea instead of the sky. He forgot that he could tan and he forgot that he could laugh. 

Kent forgot that lurching in his stomach that came with the sight of his hairline and he wanted to throw up. But he was Kent Parson, NHL hero, there was nothing for him to be afraid of. 

“Hey, Zimms.” 

 

**Connections II**

Jeff’s phone rang at 1:04 am. He didn’t try to calculate the time difference. 

“Kent?” 

“He kicked me out,” Kent said. It sounded like he was underwater. 

“Where are you?” Jeff said. “Kid, are you safe?” 

“I’m—uh—in a rental car,” he said. “Terrible color, but nice engine I guess. They didn’t have many choices at Enterprise so I picked the nicest one I could. I’m rich, you know.” 

“Are you able to drive?” Jeff asked. “Do you have somewhere to stay?” 

“I’m rich,” Kent said. “I can bribe some guy to—”

_ “Kent.” _

“I’m kidding, Jesus. I’ll find a hotel.” 

The line went silent and Jeff wished he could see him. Read the ticks and twisting gestures that usually gave him away. 

“What happened?” 

“I thought he’d care,” Kent said. “I thought he’d be happy for me, since it was his dream too, you know? But he just looked at me like I was some—like I’d done some—” 

“No,” Jeff said. “Fuck Jack Zimmermann.”

“That was the intent.”

“Seriously,” Jeff said. “I don’t like him.” 

“You don’t know him,” Kent said. 

“Did he hurt you?”

Kent didn’t answer. Jeff kicked the leg of his table. 

“Kent—”

“No,” he said. Then, smaller. Frightened. “What’s wrong with me?”

“I don’t know,” Jeff said. His grip tightened on the phone. “Please come home.” 

 

**Consolation**

“I didn’t buy a car this time,” Kent said.

Jeff didn’t want to ask. “What did you buy?”

“Her name is Kit.”

“Her?”

Kent showed Jeff a picture on his phone of a cat with her fur fluffed up and her collar askew. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” 

 

**Lithium**

Kent saw the psychiatrist the team physician recommended. Not the same one he saw when he first arrived, a different one with long, dark hair and a quick wit who knew nothing about hockey. She made him feel like he wasn’t entirely crazy, but he still lied to her the first time he saw her. 

And the second and the third. 

Kent had to unlearn how to twist his words and explain what it was like to be on the ocean, afraid to see what was coming. That it was tiring to hold on. 

He lied less. 

She told him to call Katie, then call his mom, to explain. Not to apologize for who he was, but maybe for one or two things he’d done. 

He did the same for Jeff without being told to.

 

**Things Jeff Troy knew about Kent Parson**

He was still shit at putting on weight. 

His favorite drink to order at the bar was a Shirley Temple because he loved seeing the bartender try to ask for his autograph after bringing that hot pink mess out. 

He spoiled that cat like he was some sort of estranged grandmother. 

He hated watching commercials that starred himself. (“But your ass looks so  _ good _ in under armour, man,” Alec always told him.)

He was especially good at talking to the rookies before games, so the team knew to rely on the alternates for a lot of the other crap before games to give him space to do so. 

 

**Love.**

Kent’s love for Kit was balloons and cat-safe birthday cake. He dressed her up in bows and sparkles and sent pictures to everyone on the team that didn’t curse him out for it, as well as some who did. 

Kent’s love for his family was flying them out to Vegas to spend the week with his team when it was announced he was made captain. It was gentle reminders and hugs that made him feel younger than he was. 

Kent’s love for his team was rowdy dinners and late rounds of video games he always lost. 

Kent’s love for Jack Zimmermann was thick like mucus and was never going to dislodge from his lungs. 

Kent’s love for Jeff Troy was feet up on the coffee table and not having to lie.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm dieofthatroar on tumblr as well. Distract me from studying, why don't you.


End file.
